When The Transwoman Becomes A Stranger

I guess I shouldn't be surprised.  The very title of this blog is starting to seem strange, almost alien, to me.


Maybe that was the whole point of everything I've done for the past eight years (almost).  I'm having a harder and harder time thinking of myself as anything with the prefix "trans" on it.


The funny thing is that I've come to this point partly because of two unlikely influences who would probably hate each other. Actually,  one would hate the other.  The other might just keep a kind of clinical distance.


One of the people I've mentioned is the author of "The Dirt From Dirt."  No, I didn't meet her, and have no wish to do so.  She is a "butch," which I respect as being a particular kind of woman.  (Some people would say the same thing about me.  I wouldn't disagree with them.)  That is probably the only point on which I agree with her: I don't see "butches" as women who want to be men but won't, for whatever reasons, go through the transition.


To her, biology is destiny.  If you were born with XY chromosomes, or just happened to end up with an "M" on your birth certificate because the doctor decided that you were one, well, then, you're male.  She hates and resents them because of their privilege, yadda yadda yadda.  While I know that male privilege exists, I've learned that you don't hate someone for having privilege they did nothing to get.  If you're going to hate, save your animus for those who use their power to unfairly take advantage of other people.


What she hates even more than biological males are transmen, especially if they lived as butches or simply lesbians before making his transition  She sees them as traitors who, in their treachery, support the hetero-normative gender binary.  (Say that three times fast.)  To her, they're impersonating men and people like me are impersonating  women.  Worse still, in her eyes, is that we're imitating what she sees as the most exaggerated behaviors attributed to the gender in which we're living.


I can honestly say that she's not describing me.  I'm not one of those trans women who shrieks and demands that men hold doors open for her as she's tottering on four-inch heels.  On the other hand, I do some things that most people wouldn't regard as terribly feminine, and I make no apologies for doing so.


My other influence on my thinking is a woman who doesn't want to be identified in my writings or anywhere else.  She's married and has dated only men in life.  Yet she won't call herself "straight" or "heterosexual."  Instead, she simply sees herself as a sexual being and calls her sexuality "fluid," as I call mine. She says that "homosexual" and "heterosexual" are descriptions of behavior rather than names for identity and that people use those terms, as well as "bisexual" as ways of fitting people into boxes.  And, really, the reason why I've done what I've done is that I never could fit into the boxes.  (With the weight I've gained, there are a lot of things I don't  fit into!)


So, the woman I won't name is the polar opposite of Dirt:  She does not rail against the gender binary, yet she won't reinforce it.  (She also seems to recognize the notions of homo-, hetero- and bi-sexuality are extensions of it.)  On the other hand, Dirt claims to hate male privilege, yet she unflinchingly supports the very thing that allows it to exist:  Rigid definitions of gender and sexuality.


Now I've come to realize that if any trans label ever applied to me, it's "transgendered," the adjective, not "transgender," the noun.  But even "transgendered" and "transwoman" are not completely accurate descriptions of me, or many other people to whom they're applied--any more than homo, hetero and bi are.


As I told the woman whose name I won't divulge, I have used the term "bisexual" only as one of convenience to describe myself.  Or, more accurately, it's the only term most people understand in anything like the way I've ever understood it that even remotely applies to me.  And, I would say the same thing about "transwoman" and my gender identity.


I guess the best way as I could describe myself would go something like this:  I am a woman who came to be who I am through different experiences and other means than other women have come into themselves.  However, it is in part because of those experiences that I am a woman:  I was in the world of maleness, but I am not of it and was not fully part of it.  And, partly because I am a woman, my sexuality is fluid, for I think that a woman's sexuality is inherently more fluid than a man's.  That is not to say that women are more likely to be gay or bi or whatever, but that heterosexuality, as most people understand it, is not as integral to women who live as straight women as it is to straight men.  (Actually, I think that no one more staunchly believes in the gender binary and traditional notions of hetero- and homo-sexuality  than a man who's on the "down-low.")


So...Am I going to change the title of this blog?  End it?  "No" to both questions.  I have used this blog to talk about my experiences during a time of transition in my life.  I was, when I started this blog, living as a woman but was still making my transition to femaleness.  And I am still learning what it means to actually overtly live as a person whom I could be only within myself for much of my life.  I cannot forget any of those experiences:  They have made me what I am.  And I hope that someone has been learning from, or even entertained by, them.


Therefore, even though I'm continuing this blog, I probably won't post in it as frequently.   I probably will write more in my Mid-Life Cycling blog, which, in some ways, is another chapter of this one.

Stranger In A Pizzeria

Millie came over to my place today. She clipped Charlie's and Max's nails as I held each of them. I made good on my promise to feed them salmon tonight (Yes, I cooked it.) if they were compliant kitties.

And what did I eat? Pizza! Of course, I didn't plan that. I'd gone out for a walk and was about a mile and a half from home when I simply couldn't wait. I was going to stop in a bistro-cafe where the owner and baristas know me and don't demand that I buy anything when I use their bathroom. Even so, I usually end up having an espresso or cappucino (Those are the only kinds of coffee I drink these days.) and maybe one of their little desserts. Alas, they were closed. So I went into one of those pizzeria/gyro shops that abound in this part of Queens. By that time, I had to go so badly that I simply pointed to a pie and nodded in response to hearing "Slice?" from behind the counter.

That slice could have filled me even if I hadn't eaten all day. There was so much cheese on that slice, which also had diced chicken and tomatoes, that I could picture a herd of cows striking in protest. And the crust was thick enough to use for insulation. It tasted all right, but it's not quite my style of pizza.

As the counterman was warming my slice, I went into the bathroom. I thought I'd locked the door, but a rather squat woman, perhaps a few years younger than I am, opened it as I was finishing up. She apologized loudly; I nodded toward her and walked to the counter, all the while talking on my cell phone. I paid for the slice and sat down to eat it when she tried to start a conversation with me.

I guessed that she is a regular patron of the place, as was a friend of hers who came in shortly afterward. Her friend and one of the cooks were at the table opposite mine, and egged her on simply by looking at her and looking at me.

Now, I know I was pretty disheveled: I threw on a ratty pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt and a sweater this morning, did nothing to my hair and wore no make-up save for lipstick. I wasn't a sight for sore eyes, to say the least, and--as Millie noticed--my nails were even more chipped than mishandled ceramic plates.

The woman in the pizzeria became more insistent on talking to me, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I had my slice in one hand and cell in the other. The way her friend and the cook were staring at her, and me, she couldn't do anything else. I found myself thinking about two kids getting into a fight on a playground. If the other kids surround them, they have no choice but to fight.

I've been in stranger situations, but not lately. I'm still wondering what it was about.

In Front Of The Wife

On my way home from work, I stopped in the Duane-Reade store near the Jamaica Terminal of the Long Island Rail Road. (Yes, they spell Rail Road as two words.) I had to buy one of those, you know, things a girl needs (!) and had a coupon from D-R.

Anyway, having found what I needed, I walked down the chocolates aisle. (I went from what a girl needs to what a girl craves, I guess.) There, one of those swarthy, eternally handsome men with a moustache was with a woman who was quite obviously his wife. The woman was looking at something and talking to him in what I somehow knew to be Arabic even though I don't know any Arabic. As he made the gesture of listening to her, he rocked back and brushed against me.

"Excuse me, Miss."

"That's all right," I simpered.

He paused and looked in my eyes. "You're beautiful."

While I felt flattered, I felt badly for his wife. I mean, I don't think I'd want my husband flirting with some sorta blonde stranger. In any event, I was at a loss I exhaled, "Your lady is quite lovely."

"But you are beautiful!"

"Well, I have a boyfriend," I lied. "And you have a very beautiful wife." Which, by the way, she was.

"But it is not wrong to admire how beautiful you are."

"Well, I appreciate the compliment. But, please, appreciate what you have."

"Yes, she is beautiful. But so are you."

"Thank you. And I hope you both have a nice day."

After I paid for the box of needs and package of wants, I was walking out to the street when, from the corner of my eye, I saw the man looking at me.

Now, I must say, when I got dressed this morning, I could swear that there were a few pounds around my midsection that weren't there before. And it was one of those days when every mirror and every window I passed drew attention to my seeming newly-acquired adiposity. (So why did I buy chocolate?, you ask.) But people, out of the blue, told me that I looked good. And then I bumped into that guy. Or, more accurately, he bumped into me.

I'm still thinking about his wife, though. I don't know anything about her, but I don't think she deserved that. Then again, for all I know, that's written into their marriage contract, or some kind of contract that they have.

In any event, it got me to wondering if I was anything like that guy. Of course, I never looked as good as he did. But I couldn't help but to wonder whether I was a little friendlier with some stranger or another than I should have been when I was with whoever was in my life at the time. I never consciously flirted with anyone else when I was out for the day or night with one of my now-exes. Not to brag, but I was flirted with a few times on such occasions, particularly when I was in really good shape.

I actually used to dread those situations because they always led to a fight with whomever I was hooked up with at the time. That used to happen whenever I went to an office party or other event with Tammy and her co-workers or when I would go with Eva to something or another that one of her Sarah Lawrence classmates hosted. At the office parties, it seemed like everyone was ignoring me (which I didn't mind so much) or hitting on me. And sometimes the ones hitting on me were the wives of the traders, accountants, lawyers and other executives. (Tammy worked for a Wall Street firm.) She used to say that they were interested in me because it was obvious that I wasn't in or of that realm of work. That seems plausible enough. But I don't think I'll ever figure out what any of Eva's classmates saw in me--except, perhaps, that I was with Eva.

Maybe that guy who bumped into me today was flirting for no other reason than I'm not his wife. I'm guessing that she was about my age. But other than that, we couldn't be more different: She was one of those classically beautiful Eastern Mediterranean women you could easily picture in a Greek statue or Byzantine mosaic. I guess a guy can get bored with filet mignon if he has it every night; a cheeseburger (if not a cheesecake) provides a little variety, if nothing else.

Then again, maybe he flirted with me, in front of his wife, for the same reason that Donald Trump trades in his wife every five years for a newer model: because he can.

I hope I was never like that guy or that I don't become like that woman. But, if that sort of arrangement makes them happy, I wish them well.